When No One Watches
by Zukra3
Summary: If curiousity killed the cat, what kind of mischief will it get Meg into when she is deserted by the mob in the Phantom's lair? Continued.
1. Chapter 1

Meg picked up the mask tentatively, checking to see if the mob was watching her. They weren't, being to occupy trying to find out where Christine had gone. Meg didn't much care; as she was sure Raoul would have saved Christine and gone already. The smashed mirrors were testament to the Opera Ghost's rage at Christine leaving.

As Meg wandered among the Ghost's possessions, taking time to stroke a little music box monkey, and draw the curtains over the mannequin of Christine. When she turned around again, she found that the mob had gone, leaving the curious Meg alone.

Feeling more confident now, Meg played a few notes of 'Don Juan Triumphant' on the huge organ, then left off to explore the cavern, singing the last song she had heard, "Point of No Return". She found that the cavern echoed pleasantly with her sweet voice. Meg knew she wasn't Prima Donna material like Christine, but many had told her that her voice was lovely. Perhaps the Opera Ghost would think so too.

Meg had always wanted to meet the elusive man who wrote the haunting music that seemed to resound through her soul on every hearing. Her friend Christine had never understood her attraction to the darker songs. Christine enjoyed the lighter love songs, ones with themes of honor and joy.

In her moments of introspection, Meg could see that, had not her mother told her stories of the Opera Ghost when she was growing up, Meg might have been exactly like Christine, loving only what was beautiful on the surface.

Making her way back to where she had left, Meg decided to walk through the water. The heat from the burning opera house above was beginning to penetrate through the stones of the foundation. Fear of being burned didn't frighten Meg though. There was nothing for the fire to burn down here. She was probably safest right where she was.

While the dancer walked through the thigh-high water, her foot snagged on something, sending her down into the water with and undignified squeak. After flopping about, encumbered by her loose shirt, Meg got to her feet. Following along the rope that had tripped her, Meg found a noose.

Gasping and dropping the weapon quickly, Meg's mind went to the warning that came after every one of her mother's stories.

"Just remember my dear, that though he is a genius, murder is not a moral boundary to him."

Holding the noose had reminding Meg of that, and had made her realize how close someone (probably Raoul , the hopeless fop) had come to dying. She laughed a little, recalling his reasoning for trying to trap the Phantom, "I love her!" he had declared, "And nothing should come between that love!" Meg had giggled then, and now she laughed heartedly at the stupidity of his declaration. Love had no power to conquer. Love had deserted a relationship when commitment was required. Love leaves a little girl wondering why her father had left without even meeting his little girl. Love betrayed you as surely as Christine had left the Opera Ghost behind.

Meg's lighthearted laugh trailed off with a bitter twist. Her musing had left her with the feeling of wanting everything Christine had left behind.

The curtain behind which Erik was standing gave him an ample view of the young woman invading his domain, his sanctuary. He hated that so many vagabonds had smashed their way into the heart of his home. This ballet rat was the remnants of the destroyers. Touching his personal possessions and poking her petite nose into his bedroom!

A flash of heat washed over his body when he realized exactly what the woman was putting her hands on. She was examining the swan bed in which he had laid Christine. Her blonde hair was fanning out and actually touching the pillow where his only ray of hope had laid her head.

He watched her scowl as she drew the curtains over the Christine mannequin. The scowl puzzled Erik. Christine's reaction was to faint. Anger wasn't an emotion he could connect to the mannequin.

Then she started singing. Erik wasn't prepared for the pain that stabbed through him as the woman's innocent voice sang his opera of passion. He decided then that something so pure should never sing of sexual passion.

The notes trailed off, leaving the echoes bouncing off the walls and into Erik's mind. He drew back from the curtain and leaned his head against the rock, feeling the cold seep through his back, chasing away the heat.

Splashing noises drew him back to the curtain. The blonde was making her way through the water. This was Erik's first chance to study the face of the woman. He did recognize her, but couldn't say the name. It was right there; right on the tip of his tongue but the day wouldn't come.

It was her fall into the water that nearly broke his resolve to stay hidden. But she rescued herself, standing back up with a fluid grace.

Erik flung himself back against the wall, breathing so heavily that is was a wonder that she didn't hear him. Now not even the cold of the rocks could combat the heat coursing through his body. Her entire bodice was soaked, the white material translucent and clinging to her fit body.

He vowed not to look again, for in a streak of memory, Erik had remembered who the blonde was. Meg, Madame Giry's joy. He was a dead man if Giry caught him here.

Madame Giry was the one person who Erik held in his heart as a mother. And Erik had built his values and morals around what Madame had taught him. And she had taught him very strictly about his interactions with Meg. Erik knew that Giry would list ogling her daughter as a very bad interaction.

Against his better judgment, Meg's laughter drew his back to the curtain. She was holding his noose and laughing! Erik could not comprehend her reactions. Things that had terrified Christine provoked laughter or anger in Meg.

Meg reached the shore wanting dry clothes. She figured that there had to be something here. Ignoring the desk and the mannequin, she made her schwelching way to the room with the swan bed. Rounding the corner, she found a niche that served as a closet. Finding no dresses (what could she expect, after all, this was a man's home), she claimed a white shirt and black vest out of the plethora and was then stuck on what to wear for bottoms. Her own pants were soaked, so she couldn't wear them for much longer. Even with the heat from the burning Opera House above, the cavern was still a cold place for the saturated ballerina.

After a search, Meg found some black slacks that were still too big, but small enough that she wouldn't be wading in them.

Meg looked about the cavern, suddenly apprehensive. No matter where she stood, the water and the mirrors were still in view. Taking a deep breath to calm herself, Meg stripped off her wet clothing. Then, after tying her equally wet hair, she swam into the white shirt and black slacks.

While in the process of tying the black slacks on with some ribbon, Meg noticed that the front of the shirt didn't button all the way, leaving a good deal of her chest exposed. Blushing, she grabbed the vest she had selected and put it on, making sure that it covered what the shirt didn't.

Erik tried not to look at Meg while she put on his clothes, for Madame Giry's instructions were strict on that point, but the voice of Don Juan, the cursed voice that had lost him Christine, broke his concentration, telling Erik that just one peek wouldn't hurt. That one peek turned into staring for the entirety of the changing session. Finally, after Meg had buttoned the vest up all the way, Erik tore himself away, slipping to the floor in a crouch.

He had just decided to leave when Erik realized that Meg had no idea how to get out of the labyrinth. He also remembered that Madame Giry had expressedly forbidden him from letting Meg see him. In his mental confusion, those were the rules that Erik clung to.

Erik wanted Meg out of his sanctuary. She was poking her nose where it didn't belong, particularly his affections and reactions, and Madame Giry had to be frantic by now.

Getting her to leave would be the tricky part though. Already the curious minx was opening drawers in his desk, finding his study journals, each inscribed with a different person's name from the Opera Populaire. Erik watched her rifle through them, and then give up when she reached the bottom of each drawer. He was puzzled as to what she was looking for. More mysteries…

Being careful not to get wet, Meg made her way back to the desk, under the myriad portraits of Christine. After putting on his clothes and exploring his home, Meg had realized that she still didn't know anything more about the Opera Ghost then she did before. Remembering the desk is where most people keep their secrets, that was the perfect place to start.

Shuffling through the various notebooks proved to be useless, as all the journals were about other people! Meg couldn't help but wonder what the Ghost might think of her. Searching with a frantic need to find the book inscribed with her name in flowing script. Her search was in vain. In all the drawers in the desk, there wasn't a journal for her or her mother. To her disgust, there were several for Christine.

Flickers of light in her peripheral vision caused Meg's head to snap up towards a tunnel. Sliding the drawers shut, she ran towards the bedroom to grab her dripping clothing. What if it were the Opera Ghost? Meg was finally feeling the first traces of fear.

But her dread turned to panic when the torch-bearer turned the corner with a swish of skirts, revealing the worried face of Madame Giry.

The voices in Erik's head al said a variety of profane words while the music took the frantic and erratic beat of his heart for a tempo.

"Erik?"

The quavering voice echoed out into the cavern.

"Erik, I need you desperately, please be here."

The next sentence was a whispered plea.

"Oh God, please let him be here."

A sob broke through.

"Erik! She's gone Erik, Meg's gone and I can't find her, and I'm so afraid that…"

Madame Giry broke down completely, sobbing and looking about her desperately.

Meg's shock rendered her immobile for the duration of her mothers sobbing cries.

"Mama?" She asked, stepping cautiously out of the niche where she had hidden herself.

Madame Giry stood there for a moment, then dropped her torch to burn uselessly on the damp stone floor as she flung herself at her daughter, crushing the girl into a tight embrace.

"Oh my dear", Giry murmured, "I should have never left you behind. I thought I had lost you!"

Erik listened as his friend crooned her love into her daughters hair. The pain of the day was lashed into bleeding anew. His heart ached for that comfort, for someone to love him as Giry loved Meg. Christine had almost been that comfort, but the love wasn't there. She could only see the demon, not the music. Christine could not hear the music on her own.

Tears coursed down his face as Madame Giry's comfort music soothed his own distorted cacophony.

Madame Giry pulled away and inspected her darling for any injury. Her eyebrows rose as she registered the dripping hair and loose, distinctly male clothing.

"What happened?" she asked, looking about more carefully then the first desperate glances.

Meg blushed and looked down, not sure if she should tell her mother all of her epiphanies.

"I fell in the water and got cold." Was all she said then.

Madame Giry looked suspiciously at her daughter, but accepted the explanation.

"We shall return the clothes later then. We must go my dear, before anyone comes searching."

Meg allowed her mother to lead her away, making sure to try and memorize the way back.

Erik stared at the retreating figures. Don Juan waged war with the small scrap of sanity left in the cacophony of sensations shouting. Don Juan lusted and imagined Meg's body lying on the sheets, glowing with passion. Sanity smothered the pleasureful pictures with thoughts of Giry's revenge.

Christine had betrayed him, left him for the passionate fool, Raoul. Meg had no one to take her away, and Giry had not the resources to send her away. The "Music of the Night" was destroyed with the return of his ring, but a new melody was playing softly throughout his mind.

This music was more graceful, no words yet, just the gentle swish of skirts and tap of point shoes now. But he had only seen Meg for a short time. Music must be seen through, and Erik wondered what more inspiration Meg could bring him besides this simple, sweet melody.

Weeks later, despite constant attempts to compose around it, only the simple melody remained written down, discarded scores crumpled around the organ at which Erik played. He could not add a harmony to it, but could only add to the melody.

Frequently, his cries of frustration rang out over the still lake. Joy only came when he played the melody alone. Erik began to realize that the melody was not the beginnings of an opera, but a ballet. A Ballet for a Ballerina.


	2. Opera House Repairs

The opera house was vastly damaged, any one could see that. The fire watch could only do so much and most of the stage was gone. The structure was still sound, and already there was talk of rebuilding. The weeks after the fire had been terrible for the small city that ran the opera house. Most of their fortunes were bound up in the opera house and now that it was inoperable; they were unfit for any other work. The stage was gone, as were the hanging ropes and many stories of scenery. The backstage was ravaged and the house full of seats smashed by the falling chandelier. Only the lobby and stone outside were preserved without much blemish. From the street, it looked not much different from before. But for the absence of noise, the everyday citizen would think the opera house was in operation.

To Meg, it was very evident that an exorbitant amount of money would be required to restore the opera house to even the simplest of stages. It would take the work of generations to return it to the splendor of before. For now, the more charming and personable stage hands were making money by leading tours of the disaster to the curious and wealthy. Among the elite circles, it was considered quite the thrill to see firsthand the destruction of the opera house they had formally visited to view the delights of the stage. Where tours were not led, the rest of the stage hands worked to remove the damaged material and were slowly making progress. The back stage was now emptied of fire ravaged material, and lists were being drawn up as to what absolutely needed to be replaced and what could wait for later.

Madame Giry herself kept records of everything that was destroyed. None quite understood why. The opera house was not insured and no one would ever be able to afford to buy everything on the lists. She noted everything from the grand chandelier to the smallest ballerina's tutu ribbons.

And money came from somewhere. Each worker who found themselves in financial trouble (of an honest nature, drinking debts were not included) also found that the next day their creditors had been paid. Madame Giry refused to take credit when the workers thanked her. She simply replied that, "The Opera Ghost was trying to make amends for his actions." Not all were happy about being bought in this manner, but with their means of work gone, no one could refuse the gift.

Meg did not have the time or the energy to try and find the tunnels again. There was too much work to be done. It seemed there was never enough time in the day. True, the ballerinas were not allowed to carry heavy loads of wood or handle carting away destroyed seats. They were given the task of clearing the burnt backrooms of debris and sorting what could be kept or had to be thrown away. That in itself was a monumental task. Decades of operas had accumulated costumes and props that had collected dust until someone had thought they could be remade and used again. Now they were blackened and twisted heaps buried in ash to be dug out and thrown away. At the end of each day the labors of the men showed in the sweat soaking their shirts while the girls displayed their soot streaked clothing and skin. Some had gone to wearing the same dress for a week to save their clean clothes.

Washing of clothes was done once a week (hence the girls idea to only wear one dress a week) and washing of bodies was by necessity a rag bath every day and a thorough bath every Sunday. They never had to fetch the water. The baths were always filled by the time the work day ended. There were also buckets of water left in convenient spots along the edges of the work sites. Madame Giry told everyone that this was other form of the Opera Ghost's apology. Privately, Meg thought that the Opera Ghost must be working himself harder than anyone else to provide the water and to do all the other little things people found. Whenever someone was particularly distressed and frustrated, they often found a rose left specifically for them. Meg herself had found a rose left for her on bad days.

Beneath the opera house the tunnels and lake had gone unscathed. Erik's home had not been touched by the destruction he had unleashed. Instead of comforting him, it only stirred the guilt welling inside him. As this was the first time he had felt the emotion so strongly as to not be able to dismiss it, the feeling ate him up inside. For the first time he felt that his actions had been wrong, that he had taken out his anger for Raul too far. He had destroyed his home and the home of the hundreds he had watched for these past years. For the first time he had taken responsibility for his actions, sending money to creditors and making sure that the workers restoring the opera house were as comfortable as possible. His music lay neglected on his organ as he worked instead on helping others.

But as it always had, the music stayed in his head whether he wrote it down or not. The melody was wistful and a touch sad, but so was the atmosphere of the opera house. The voices had quieted too. Don Juan was nearly extinguished, rising only when Erik visited the Giry's sleeping loft and left them roses. The knowledge that Meg disrobed here was enough to awaken Don Juan and leave him lusting over can't haves the rest of the day. Those were the days Erik worked on his ballet through the wee hours of the night.

After five long and gritty weeks, Meg finally saw a ghost of a smile on her mother's face. There was no reason that Meg could see, just her mother, streaked in soot, standing where their rooms had once been. All of the walls were gone, leaving light streaks of un-burnt floor where they had been. Then her mother did something even stranger. With her cane, she began the tapping and swirling that from childhood Meg recognized as her mother's method of visualizing choreography. As Meg drew closer to her mother, stepping silently as she was trained to do all her life for dancing, she thought she heard music. It was muffled and soft, but distinctly there. Madame Giry opened her eyes to see her daughter's quizzical expression as Meg tried to determine where it was coming from.

Giving up her search for the source of the music, Meg looked at her mother. There was an expression of soft joy lighting Madame's eyes that Meg had only seen a few times. Once, when she had done a whole ballet number in point shoes for the first time, another, the opening night of an Italian opera Meg could not understand at the time, but realized it was about a father coming home to his family. The third and only other time was on a day in December every year when Madame always received a small gift, some years a rose, some years some trinkets of startling beauty. Meg had never been able to discover the connection between the gifts and the date.

"He's playing again…" Madame Giry softly whispered. "There is hope for this place yet."

"What do you mean, Mama?" asked Meg, realizing with a start that the music came not from around them, but underneath the floor.

"I mean that when the opera house is ready, so will its music. Without the music… We could not hope to go on without our music." Madame's cane still tapped and swished to the faint strains of melody. "The reason for our popularity was not our brilliant sets or singers or dancers, though they were some of the finest in the country, but our music. The Opera Ghost's music. We would just be another opera house out of many if not for his music."

"He is still here then? I thought he had fled when Chris-" Meg stopped herself at a sharp look from her mother, "…that night the opera burned."

"No. He's never left us. Where do you think the water comes from? And the roses? He knows us all better than we know ourselves I think."

"Mama? Why didn't he have a journal on us?"

At Meg's softly spoken question her mother's cane abruptly stopped moving. "What did you say?"

"He had journals of everyone, he studied them. But he didn't have journals on us. Why?" Meg's question had gathered force behind it. It demanded a true answer despite its still quiet and respectful tone.

"Why would I know about that?" she replied, dodging the question.

"Because you came looking for him. You called his name, Erik. You know him well enough to ask him for help." Meg's eyes challenged her to deny it.

Madame Giry's respect for her daughter's intelligence went up a notch. "We are friends, he and I, and friends do not study friends like lab rats. But don't think he doesn't watch over us all the same. The roses he gives you are especially beautiful."

Meg blushed faintly. "Yes, they are." She murmured before asking, "Can I be his friend too?"

Giry went pale then pulled her daughter close and whispered in her ear, "You want to… Do you not remember what happened to Christine?"

"I remember Mama. But they were not friends, she never knew him, not truly. And he loved her. He would not love me." Meg whispered back, hearing her voice break on the last words.

Giry pulled back and gazed at her daughter with the saddest expression Meg had ever seen grace her mother's face. "He would love fiercely anyone who showed him kindness."

Meg's mind went straight to Christine. "She threw away a great gift then. Raoul will never love her so."

Giry wrapped her daughter in a hug, hiding Meg's scowl in her shoulder, wishing she hadn't seen it. It was too late to try and forbid what she now knew was happening. When Meg wanted to be friends with someone, nothing would stop her. And Erik… Poor Erik needed to be loved. Giry just wished it wasn't her daughter.

But then again, hadn't she herself told Meg stories about the kindnesses of the Opera Ghost along with the meanness? Wasn't she the one who had taught Meg to be kind to the lonely? To look past exteriors? Meg's mind was strong; she would not be blinded by Erik's voice in order not to see the rest of the boy. Though Erik was a man grown, Giry knew that his mind was still that of a boy's, still trying to make sense of what females did to his head. He did not understand romantic relationships were hard work, to be based on mutual trust. There were precious few examples of that in the opera house. Most children, like Meg, grew up without ever knowing their runaway fathers.

Giry now saw that she had been telling Meg stories about Erik not to frighten her, but to make her understand Erik as Giry herself did. Meg could not help but want to help him now.

Still holding her innocent little girl in her arms, Giry could not help but feel apprehensive. Being friends with Erik would expose her to the horrors that the world could punish a person with. Giry knew that when Meg asked, Giry would tell her how she came to find Erik and that with that telling, Meg's innocent view of the world would shatter. But she also knew that she had no right to keep Erik from someone who would show him kindness. If she did so then she was no better than those she had rescued him from.

"My little girl," Giry crooned. "My little girl all grown up." She hugged Meg tightly, than released her to wipe the moisture from her eyes. "I will send a note. It's time you were introduced properly."


End file.
